


Collect Call

by ChocolatePecan



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Acceptance, Angst, Gen, Gladio deals with the practicalities, Grief, Ignis is a wonderful end-of-life carer, Noct stands by his bestie, Post-World of Ruin, Prompto doesn't ask for help, Regret, dying with dignity, respecting the decisions of others, spoilers for FFXV Royal Edition, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-17 00:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14176395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolatePecan/pseuds/ChocolatePecan
Summary: The sun is warm on Ignis’ face as he stands at the window of the hotel room in Lestallum. He stands there so long he can sense the sun drop out of the sky, the shadow of evening drawing the warmth away.He hears Gladio preparing for his mercy run: a round-trip to the Crown City for medications that will ease Prompto's pain.Gladio comes to stand beside him. It's a few moments before he speaks, and when does his voice is loaded with grief. "I don’t think he’s got more than three days in him."They are long past hiding their grief from each other. Ignis doesn't move his face away from the last of the sun's heat, and has to force his voice out of hiding when he says, "I don’t think he has even that."(In which Ignis and Gladio once more see a brother to the other side.)





	Collect Call

**Author's Note:**

> Just when I think I don't have any more deathfics in me, I surprise (and maim) myself.
> 
> Thanks go to the amazing kay_cricketed, who is keeping me together while my mental health takes a short break from proceedings.

 

The desk manager at the Leville is as professional as ever, though Ignis detects alarm in his voice. In the foyer, the acuteness of Lestallum seems just the same as it was fifteen years ago: the delicate hum of the power station, the incomprehensible babble of voices as the women leave work, and the calls of street food sellers as afternoon slips into evening.

“He’s had the ‘do not disturb’ sign up for three days,” the desk manger says. “I regret we’re no longer able to honour that request.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Gladio’s voice is deep with worry. “Won’t be you he blames, it’ll be us.”

Ignis and Gladio waste no time. The keycard lock on room 126 whirrs and clicks, and though Ignis can’t see it, he imagines the light turn green. He reaches around Gladio to plant his fingertips on the door and push.

He can immediately recognises the presence of someone he knows well. Fifteen years into blindness, Ignis still can’t pinpoint how he does it. Perhaps it’s their unique scent, the specific pattern of their heartbeat, or some sixth sense – but the skill’s accuracy is undeniable. As the _huthhh_ of the door swinging open fades away, he hears heavy breathing.

“Prompto. I know you’re here,” Ignis says, taking a few steps into the room. He doesn’t recognise the frail gasp from further in. Before Ignis can speak again, Gladio gives an involuntary grunt and bundles him roughly backwards. On tenterhooks, Ignis hears the rumple of bedcottons, then a keen of pain. The latter instantly brings to mind Prompto’s familiar face.

“Shit,” Gladio says. Then, voice trembling with emotion, “Shit, Prompto. Whyn’t you just damn well _say_?”

Prompto’s voice is hoarse. “Didn wanta fuss.” The short speech leaves him panting.

“Well, there’s a first,” Gladio says, and slams the hotel room door, shutting them all in.

The exchange is all Ignis needs to understand that beneath Prompto’s voice, inside his noisy breathing, there is something irredeemably wrong.

Desolation doesn’t wait for the understanding to pass.

 

Gladio describes the debris all around Prompto’s room as he cleans it, the air heady with putridity. There’s an empty glass by the bedside. A towel thick with bloody mucus on the floor near the bed. Dark reddish-brown paper tissues strewn across one side of the blankets. A bottle of pills tucked under a pillow. Filthy clothes left in a small pile inside the bathroom door.

Gladio tells Ignis that Prompto had reached for an armiger pistol when they entered the room. An ex-soldier is used to defending himself first and asking questions later – that part doesn’t bother Ignis. But the armiger had permanently shifted beyond reach at the moment of Noct’s death, and not recalling that shows just how muddled Prompto is. Worse, trying to defend himself against his oldest and closest friends can only mean he was too ill to recognise them quickly.

Ignis secures a clean glass and a jug of fresh water. Holding the glass on the bedside chest, he uses the slosh of water from the jug to judge how close it is to the lip. He ought to ask, whether he intends to respect the answer or not. “Is it all right for us to be here?”

Prompto breathes harder for a moment, trying to get enough breath to speak. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Ignis says. “Because I’m not capable of leaving you now.”

Gladio tells Ignis there’s no discernible evidence of Prompto’s having eaten over the days he’s been holed up, and he apparently looks like he stopped doing that weeks ago. Ignis tries to picture the fragile, breathless Prompto he knows he’s sharing the room with, but his imagination puts a line through every one of his efforts.

He doesn’t chasten Prompto for not telling them about the seriousness of his illness, back when they could have done more to help him. He can’t know if the right treatments and medics might have extended his life, and he can’t change Prompto’s decision. Instead, he chastens himself for not linking the signs earlier.

There’d been Prompto’s reticence to go on Glaive missions, most likely because he was afraid he’d become a burden to his teammates. He was always more concerned for others than for himself. There had also been lengthening gaps between his check-ins at the Citadel, though Ignis had just thought him busy with Glaive duties. Recently, he’d been arriving late to Glaive rollcalls, earning harsh reprimands from Gladio or Cor. He’d apologised profusely and accepted the criticism and occasional public punishments, despite tardiness not being one of his natural traits.

The most damning sign of all had been the constant chest infections since the beginning of the year. Ignis had heard the rattle in his chest and listened to him while he shared the litany of his remedies over hurried lunches and harried street coffees. Ignis had thought it broadly under control, even though he knew Prompto had a spiritual faith in wishes and hope and over-the-counter medicine that Ignis didn’t share.

They hadn’t even realised when Prompto had asked for some time away from the Kingsglaive. Their work with the interim government had reached a crucial point, and there were still skirmishes in the boonies between those who couldn’t accept that the single identities of Niff or Lucian no longer existed.

 _Timing’s awful,_ Gladio had said. _You can’t wait a while?_

 _Haven’t had a day off in fifteen years,_ Prompto had said.

 _Nor’s anyone else. What makes you special?_ Gladio was right, but hadn’t known the full story. What Prompto should have been asking for was help from his friends, not leave from his duties. Ignis knew that perma-night had made him mellow, but too reticent to speak up for himself while unabashed about speaking up for others.

Gladio had been working fourteen hour days in an effort to keep everything calm and steady amongst the populace, and Ignis had been trying to manage the expectations of the interim government. Doing what Prompto sometimes called _proper_ work. And in doing _proper_ work they’d both missed the obvious fact that their friend needed help.

The final missed clue had been Prompto’s nervous smile as he stood in Gladio’s office. Ignis had heard it, even if he hadn’t seen it. _Just be a few weeks, I reckon. It’s not like I’d ask if it wasn’t important._     

Ignis regretted his own irritation at the flippancy now, as it had made him say, _Importance is relative._

He should have recognised the flippancy for what it was: a coping mechanism. The more serious the situation, the more flippant Prompto became. Those who didn’t know him well sometimes saw it as arrogance, or detachment, but it was neither. It was fear.

After the arguing had died down, Gladio had agreed to three weeks, even though Prompto had wanted four. Gladio had later confided in Ignis that he’d allowed for four as contingency, but no longer.

Prompto had been gone precisely four weeks and a day before Gladio and Ignis held crisis talks. They’d gone to Prompto’s digs in their casual clothes, only to find that he’d surrendered his tenancy two weeks before. The landlady had let Gladio see the papers, a regretful tut in her voice. She told them she’d had no choice but to agree to release him early. _It was obvious he was telling the truth_ , she’d said, _I could tell by looking at him_. Ignis had felt thunder in his chest when she’d continued with, _He could hardly even walk._

Prompto had written his reason for ending the tenancy early on the surrender papers, and Gladio had said the handwriting was jagged and barely legible. The flippancy had reached an all-time high. _One-way ticket to the Elephant’s Graveyard_.

Had they caused Prompto to believe that they couldn’t be trusted with this most painful of personal truths? Ignis had thought their synergy more essential than that, but given his own actions of late perhaps that was wishful thinking.

Or had Prompto just wanted to slip away, hoping to go unnoticed and forgotten about? He must have known that wasn’t possible, but Ignis remembered with sadness what Prompto had said to Talcott all that time ago in Lestallum: _No need to respect me, I’m not royalty._

He’d made it five years into Sunrise and wouldn’t make a sixth. It was long enough to help grow the roots of the new infrastructure in Eos and to enact the promise he and Noct had made to each other – to bring down the walls between Niffs and Lucians – but not long enough to see it all come to fruition.

As he runs the tap to fill the hotel room’s bath, that thought snaps a glass barrier in Ignis. He whips off his gloves and grasps his face tightly to ground himself, counting breaths, telling himself: _Not now. Not yet. There is work to be done._

 

It’s obvious from the ammonia in the hotel room that Prompto has lost the ability or will to care for himself. The least they can do is give him the grace of cleanliness.

On his knees beside the bath, Ignis listens to the bedsheets rustling in the main room. He imagines Gladio moving them back, and can hear the quiet _thhhp_ of a body being pulled over cotton, presumably towards the edge of the bed.

Gladio’s often overlooked gentleness softens his voice. “Come on, up you get.”

All Prompto can manage is a growl of resistance. Gladio mimics him, then swallows it back to say, “Up, up, up, up. That’s it. Can you stand?”

“Nuh,” Prompto says, and it’s little more than an expression of pain.

“All right,” Gladio says. “I gotcha.”

Ignis imagines arms being tucked into the chest for transport, infirm legs rubbing together as they’re raised, and a head coming to rest on an arm at the quiet _shhhf_ of skin being touched by dry hands, accompanied by the click of tired bones.

Words don’t come together in Ignis’ mind at this as they usually do. Instead, the terminal nature of it all appears there fully formed: _It’s gone to the brain. He has days at the most._ He tries to remember everything he can about the active dying period, its length and what Prompto will need to pass through it, but _dying_ and _Prompto_ are not words that belong together.

Ignis senses Gladio enter the room, and moves back so he can lower Prompto into the half-filled bath. Prompto hisses at the sensation of warm water.

“It’s not too hot?” Ignis asks. He checks the water again with an elbow.

After a long breath, Prompto says, “Nah. S’just. Long time.”

While Gladio arranges for a fresh bed and sheets, Ignis reacquaints Prompto with soap and water. Prompto had often complained about lack of washing facilities during the Long Night. Further back than that, on the road trip where they’d got to know each other, he’d been the one to sound most chagrined about not being clean.

It isn’t until Ignis is bathing Prompto, making gentle sweeps with the sponge, that he can fully appreciate what made Gladio so emotional.

Prompto’s face is gaunt, with cheeks so sunken they make it hard to reconcile his face with the one of memory. There are palpable lumps where the lymph nodes of his neck and chest are. His collarbone can be grasped with finger and thumb, the wiry shoulder muscles of battle now wasted to almost nothing. Ribs protrude like the black keys on a piano.

The revulsion Ignis feels at the distension of Prompto’s right chest and abdomen compared to the left surprises and appals him, though he’s too practised at being inscrutable to let his friend see. Around the distension, everything is concave. Only Prompto’s bony hips give his lower body any shape at all.

Despite the loss of nutrients, Prompto’s beard is still growing. Ignis scratches his fingers over several weeks of growth on his cheeks, dropping to his chin where he finds the longer patch of beard Gladio had mentioned.

Ignis rubs the beard there with his knuckles. “Do you want to keep this?”

“Nuh. Leave it,” Prompto says.

Ignis can’t tell if the statement is underpinned by guilt or anger. “Why?”

“S’too much trouble.” Prompto has to take several breaths before he can say, “S’not proper work.”

Ignis had thought his heart shattered by years of war and losing Noct, but it seems there is still a bit of it left. It’s a piece just big enough to feel sore at the idea that staying close to your dying friend and offering what comfort you can is anything but proper work.

Ignis rubs a thumb over the beard and says, “I believe it’s my trouble to go to.” His hand seeks the safety razor at his side, then the can of shaving foam. “Unless you don’t want me to?”

“No. I do.” Prompto’s voice is thin. “Just,” and the words tremble as they come out in a rush, “I wish I could do it myself.”

Ignis knows that Prompto made sure to groom himself every morning during the Long Night. He’d said so over a beer on the steps of Lestallum one evening; that it was a marker to start the day, even when the start of day was hard to ascertain. That it was something to look forward to on the rougher days, a routine act of self-care that saved him from tripping into the darkness instead of fighting it.

“You mustn’t feel ashamed.” Ignis wets the razor in the bath water, rubbing his thumb downwards over the blade guard. “It’s all right. To let somebody else care for you when you can’t anymore.”

He doesn’t trust himself enough to shape the beard and still leave Prompto intact, so he shaves him clean. Prompto doesn’t raise a single objection, though it takes all of Ignis’ effort to ignore the dampness on his friend’s cheeks and the change in his breathing that give away the tears.

 

The chair creaks as Ignis settles himself into a more comfortable position. Not being able to read quietly to himself is still a nuisance, even after all these years. Instead, he passes the time with a game cube Talcott had found somewhere on his travels and brought back for him. It has raised patterns on each side, and he has to match the different patterns on each of them. He’s done it hundreds of times, so many that the joints are wearing thin.

It feels churlish to ‘pass time’ when Prompto has so little of it left. He puts the cube back in his satchel.

Even though Prompto had been a passive observer in his bath, it exhausted him. Since Gladio left for supplies he’s been asleep, in a clean bed, on clean linens. He might be dying, but there’s no reason he should die in his own filth. The room smells like soap and recently laundered sheets now, but the musky odours of end-stage disease can’t be cleansed away.

Prompto is too ill to take the journey back to the Crown City, and Ignis won’t be able to care for him without help. He’s already made it clear that on no account will he leave this room until the time comes. Although Noct left them in joint charge of restoring health to Eos, Ignis knows he wouldn’t forgive them if they abandoned Prompto in so doing.

Ignis had listened to Gladio’s hushed telephone conversation with Cor as soon as they got him out of the bath. To his credit the older man hadn’t paused before guaranteeing quiet and offering time and space.

Prompto is a man who can’t tell a lie, who is earnest, and who makes decisions by way of the heart. The younger Ignis found it hard to reconcile that behaviour with his own strong sense of duty. Sometimes he’d even found it irritating. In middle age it’s a trait he respects in its entirety.

Ignis has never forgotten that it was Prompto who offered him support most quickly, most consistently, and most sincerely when he was thrust into his own perpetual darkness. Nor has he forgotten the hours they spent talking, or the fact that Prompto understood what it was to always give of your best, and who in small ways acknowledged that same conduct in him.

It’s a small kindness, Ignis thinks, to wait. A single payment towards the debts of the heart.

 

When the fauna of Eos had been afflicted by the Starscourge, or had died because they couldn’t tell when to eat or when to sleep, it had been hard to establish the break between day and night. Ignis can sense the change with no difficulty now. With the slow return of life across the realm, both animal and vegetable, it became possible to tell when day and night switched places from the noises and scents that became available.

When Gladio had finished his conversation with Cor, Ignis had asked after medications in the room, mindful of Prompto’s tendency to overreact when the situation was trivial, and underreact when it was serious. All Gladio had been able to find was the bottle of pills under the pillow. Gladio had scoffed in horror as he read the label out loud: _for occasional headaches, back pain, and high fever_.

 _Dear gods,_ Ignis had said, _get him some proper analgesia. He must be in agony._

He’d called ahead to the Crown City. It was still being rebuilt, but already had the most conclusive set of medics and medicines in the land. It had taken half an hour to locate Prompto’s doctor who, despite the lateness of Prompto’s condition, still insisted on patient-doctor confidentiality. Ignis had told him, anger sharpening his voice to a point, _I already know what’s wrong with him, I’m not asking you what’s wrong with him. I’m asking you to prescribe for him what you would if he were standing in front of you, in pain due to the end stages of it. No, he will not be in to collect it. I will send somebody on his behalf._

“I’ve always known it, Iggy, but I never want to get on your wrong side,” Gladio had said when Ignis ended the call. Ignis had just squeezed the phone tightly in his fist, trying to transfer his anger into it instead of leaving it roiling in his insides.

Before Gladio had left to collect the medication, he’d made sure Prompto was fully covered and his hair was dry. They’d agreed that it was easier to deal with his intimate care if he wasn’t wearing any clothes, so they’d left him naked beneath the blankets and placed towels underneath him to prevent ruining another mattress.

Ignis had turned his attention to the window while Gladio told Prompto not to cause trouble while he was gone, and to not go anywhere just yet. He’d done it with a lilt in his voice, and Prompto had offered something back that had made Gladio laugh but that had been lost between the bed and the window.

The sun was warm on Ignis’ face as the birds headed in and the insects came out. Gladio had come to stand beside him, and when he spoke his voice was loaded with grief. _I don’t think he’s got more than three days in him_.

They were long past hiding their grief from each other. Ignis didn’t move away from the heat of the window, and had to force his voice out of hiding when he said, _I don’t think he has even that._

 

The hours just before midnight are punctuated by the occasional slam of a door or footsteps in the corridor. When their door finally opens to signal Gladio’s return, Ignis is glad for the break from his own thoughts.

Ignis hears the crinkle of a paper bag before Gladio puts it heavily in his lap. It’s weightier than he’d anticipated. He’d expected painkillers, but the bag is too heavy for that to be all there is.

“What’s in here?” Ignis asks as he opens the bag and unpacks it on the bed. There are long, heavy boxes – oral emulsions? Further in, there are small glass ampoules, and what feels like a string of syringes, sealed in paper and plastic.

“Doc gave him the good stuff,” Gladio says. “I’ll talk you through it.” Ignis hears him pull up a chair and rest back into it with a sigh. “How’s he doing?”

“Sleeping. He’s been that way since you left.”

The bedclothes rustle as Gladio sits forward to explain the clutch of medications. The syringes are in two sizes. One is for the oral medications: _so we can dose him properly and not make him swallow too much at once_ , Gladio says. The smaller size is obviously for delivery of the ampoule contents, complete with hypodermic needles packed individually in one of the smaller boxes.

“For pain,” Ignis states, and hands the box of needles and the smaller syringes to Gladio. He runs his thumbs over the ampoules, one in each hand, but there seem to be two types. “Which one is for pain?”

Gladio takes an ampoule out of his hand, leaving him with the other: a short one with a tall glass stopper. “The one I’ve got’s for pain. Your one’s for seizures.”

“Seizures?” It’s not until Ignis says it that he remembers what he’d thought to himself in the bathroom: _it’s gone to the brain_.

“Yeah. Seizures.” There’s another sigh before Gladio says, “You don’t want to know what the rest of this stuff’s for.”

Ignis listens carefully as Gladio unwraps the syringes. He holds his hand out for the casings; he can’t be trusted to dose their friend himself, but he can at least tidy up after the process. The snap of the ampoule being opened is distinctive, and similar to the crack of a potion bottle.

Despite Prompto’s laboured breathing, a sound and rhythm he’s become accustomed to, Ignis can hear the liquid being drawn up into the syringe.

Prompto’s bedcovers crumple as Gladio turns them back. “Not sure if you’re awake, but. Watch out. Incoming to the thigh.”

Ignis listens for the press of the plunger. He fancies he even hears the painkiller enter the muscle – or maybe it’s just the echo of his own relief. Prompto’s breathing slips into an easier tenor. He hadn’t told them he was in pain but it’s obvious he was. The shape of his body, so twisted by his condition, couldn’t cause anything but misery. The medication will be far from perfect, but something is better than nothing and they’re at the beginning of the dosing cycle. There are still at least three medications to go before any kind of comfort can be achieved.

 

Ignis and Gladio decide to take turns sleeping. Neither wants to leave Prompto without company, and they don’t know if he can still call for help should the need arise. Gladio measures out second doses of the medicines, and sets Ignis’ alarm for the early morning.

“If I’m not up and he needs more, don’t just let me sleep.” Gladio kicks off his boots, and his body sounds heavy as he gets into bed. “Don’t you sit up all night, either.”

“Indeed,” Ignis says, and it’s the most noncommittal answer there is. He wonders if any of them ever realised that.

 

Ignis doesn’t know what time it is when Prompto’s breathing becomes irregular. There’s a soft keen to the breaths, and Ignis stands so that he can get closer to the bed. His fingers seek and find Prompto’s arm, then locate both hands over his midriff. He squeezes.

He doesn’t often wish he could see anymore – he’s past that. Wishes are for Altissian water fountains and children under the age of ten. But even though he knows he wouldn’t like the view, he wishes it now. Eye contact means reassurance, but it’s something outwith his ability to offer. He’d also be able to get a better sense for Prompto’s condition if he could see it.

Instead, he keeps his voice low as he asks Prompto whether there’s anything he needs. He doesn’t answer, though his breathing shifts into a higher key. His hands feel cold, and his brow and cheeks feel just the same. The room itself doesn’t bear a chill, and after exploration Ignis finds Prompto is still blanketed.

His body is starting to turn off.

Ignis wakes Gladio while getting another blanket out of the drawer beneath the bed. Ignis asks him for a bowl of wash-warm water and a cloth, and throws the extra blanket over Prompto. The click of Gladio’s bowl in the bathroom sink indicates metal, and it doesn’t take long for Ignis to hear the booted shuffle of his feet on the main room’s carpet.

Gladio puts the bowl on the wooden chest with a heavy thud. The water is just the right side of warm, and Ignis dips the cloth in it, squeezing out the excess. “Is there a bed warmer somewhere in this room? Preferably electric. If not, can we get one? I don’t want to use a hot water bottle at his feet when he can’t tell us if it leaks.”

He must know the chances are slim, but Gladio calls down to reception where they tell him they don’t have anything like that. They do tell him where he can get one, though, and Ignis hears him slip on his jacket with a murmur of a quick return. The door closes solidly behind him.

Ignis had bathed Prompto clean only a few hours before. This bath wasn’t for cleanliness, but for comfort. Prompto probably couldn’t regulate his own temperature anymore, which might mean he didn’t notice he was cold, or it might mean he did and just couldn’t fix it. The former meant he wouldn’t mind the warm wash. The latter meant it was the difference between comfort and discomfort.

He starts with Prompto’s hands. They’re calloused for years of hard work and for fighting. Ignis can almost draw his gun in his hand with a finger, using the dot-to-dot of their pattern as his guide.

He speaks in soft tones while he draws the cloth between Prompto’s fingers. _All your hard work. Everything you’ve fought for and achieved, written on these hands._ He probes beneath the lengthy fingernails. _All the_ _walls broken down by your effort._ He balls the cloth into his palm. _No man ever took a more courageous journey to overcome the circumstances of his birth._

Ignis moves his attention to the other hand. _Hands that held back the darkness._ Strokes the back of it with the cloth. _That indicated a direction for those of us who were lost._ Wraps the wrist, the tender, vulnerable skin where blood beats close to the surface. _That made the world a better, safer place._

He can’t find his voice when it comes to Prompto’s arms, or shoulders, the neck or the face. Instead, he accepts the frail hand that finds its way to his chest, and momentarily places his own over it.

When he’s rinsed the cloth in the remaining warmth for the last time, Ignis squeezes it as dry as he can and places it on Prompto’s forehead as a compress. He holds it there for a few minutes, wiping away the trails of water that dribble down Prompto’s temples.

Prompto breathes deeply once, twice, three times, before he can say, “Noct’s here.”

Ignis was there when the gods granted Lady Lunafreya leave to attend Noct, enabling the summons that broke down the wall around the Citadel. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that Noct is in the room, though it’s more likely Prompto is hallucinating under the weight of the painkillers or the impetus of death.

In any case, it’s not for Ignis to tell him he’s wrong. He’s not distressed, and if it comforts him to think Noct is here with them, so be it.

“Gladio will be here soon, too. The four of us will be together for a little bit then, eh?” Ignis towels Prompto down, trying to avoid any residual dampness. There is a little more warmth in his face now, and Ignis wants to keep it there.

 

Gladio returns with a chargeable ceramic bed warming unit, cased in plastic. It can’t leak, and as long as it’s kept away from Prompto’s bare skin it won’t do him any harm.

Ignis unpacks it, finding the electricity socket on the unit with his fingertips and edging the lead inside. Before he can plug it into the wall, however, Gladio pins his hand to the desk.

“Your turn to sleep. Don’t argue,” Gladio says.

Ignis is exhausted, but too nervous to sleep. Arguing with Gladio when he’s like this will end in failure and bad feeling though, so he surrenders to lying in bed for a few hours. He gives in to sleep against his own will, accompanied by the sounds of Gladio moving around the room, pulling up Prompto’s bedcovers and gently reassuring him as his breathing quickens.

 

The quiet of morning comes early, peaceful and unobtrusive. It occurs to Ignis that he hasn’t heard Prompto cough. He probably can’t anymore. The tissues and bloody towel were from days before. Now there’s a low crackle whenever he breathes – evidence of his lungs filling with mucus – and there’s nothing Ignis can do to help him.

When Prompto is awake, Gladio says he seems to lose himself in silent murmur, and when he’s asleep Ignis spends his hours listening for a worsening of his condition. In between, Ignis wets his friend’s mouth with a glycerine swab. Drinking will just do him harm now. He no longer needs water.

The hours pass slowly. If Ignis wants to talk, he takes both of Prompto’s hands in his before he starts. Touch is the most grounding of senses when all others are confused, he knows that well. He remembers the sensation of Prompto’s guiding hand on his lower back when he was trying to get used to his blindness, urgently trying to make sense of the substantial and dangerous world around him.

Prompto isn’t able to respond to questioning anymore. Ignis asks if he needs anything, or if there’s anyone else he wants to see, but Prompto can’t tell him. Ignis wonders how Iris will take the news when he passes. He considers what Talcott might say, as he knows they’re close. He thinks Aranea will probably take her upset out on whoever tells her.

He wonders if they would want to be there with him, whether he should call them and tell them that a life’s peace is settling in a hotel suite in Lestallum. But right now, it’s Prompto’s wants that matter. It is his death, his last moments. All other demands must cease. He came here to die alone, and though Ignis was selfish enough to prevent that he’s not selfish enough to summon others to his side.

Though they know Prompto can’t talk, Ignis and Gladio assume he can still hear them. They keep their voices soft, put away any potential arguments over his care, and sit at his side to reminisce as the sun settles back into bed.

Gladio leans on his elbow against the mattress. He sits at Prompto’s left, and his free hand rests on Prompto’s arm. He talks about their battle with the Dread Behemoth some fifteen years before with the sweeping confidence Ignis recognises, and while Gladio isn’t a natural storyteller he’s doing a good job at pretending.

“Didn’t think I’d make it that time, to be honest. All that thing needed to do was sit down and roll.”

“Thankfully we had Prompto’s last ditch effort with Crackshot, and a single Phoenix Down remaining.” Ignis sits in a chair at Prompto’s right. He holds Prompto’s inner arm, just under the elbow. Prompto’s arm rests in perfect alignment over his own, hand resting on the swell. Though Prompto has no grip of his own anymore, his fingers occasionally tick against Ignis’ arm.

“You made us drive all the way back to Burbost for supplies right after, even though Vyv was on our back every two minutes about a photo deadline.” Gladio laughs to himself. “Thought you’d wrestle Noct into the back seat and strap him there yourself when he said ‘maybe later’.”

“I might well have, a year or two before. Thankfully I was able to overcome Noct’s sense of youthful immortality with some simple advice.”

“I think it was ‘unless we secure additional curatives now, next time you will have to choose which of us lives and which of us dies’, or something.” Gladio whistles. “I said it earlier, Iggy – I never want to be on your wrong side.”

“The cost of being eminently sensible is occasionally being the bad guy,” Ignis says. “It’s usually a price worth paying.” He rubs Prompto’s arm with a thumb absently as he recalls the look on Noct’s face when he’d bluntly told him about the curatives: the drawn-together eyebrows and the clench of his teeth. Sometimes he’d had to deliver a hurtful blow, even when he didn’t want to.

He thumbs Prompto’s arm again. “Besides, Noct was simply carried away in the moment. He wouldn’t have willingly risked any of our lives. Look at how many times he passed control of battle to one of us, then refused to leave us to our fates as we’d agreed.”

Prompto tightens his fingers on Ignis’ arm. Stroking Prompto’s hand, Ignis’ responding smile is crooked. “Yes, Prompto, I hear you telling me ‘don’t talk about him like he’s not here’.”

“What’s that?” Gladio asks.

Ignis realises he hasn’t mentioned Prompto’s last coherent words. “Prompto believes Noct is here with us.”

“Is he now?” Gladio chuckles. “Listening in on our private conversations, huh? Shame he can’t join in.”

Ignis is relieved that he and Gladio seem to share the same opinion about Noct’s presence: that if it isn’t distressing Prompto to think he’s there, there’s no point in challenging it. It also settles the question of whether he’s really in the room. If Noct had been there in the same way Lunafreya had been at the Citadel, Gladio would see him and would certainly say so.

For the third time in fifteen minutes, Gladio’s pocket buzzes. He groans. “Iris. Gotta be. Nobody else is that determined.”

“You should call her.” Ignis doesn’t take his hand from Prompto’s. “She’s likely heard rumours by now. It will settle her mind.”

“Nothing settling about it. And if I tell her, she’ll want to be here.” Gladio scratches his beard. “I can’t lie to her, Iggy.” His hand slaps down onto his thigh.

“No. I know.” Ignis is momentarily distracted by the coldness of Prompto’s hand. He closes his palm over the fingertips. In his mind’s eye, they’re tinged blue. He suspects the same of Prompto’s mouth and nose, though he doesn’t ask Gladio to confirm. The imagining is enough.

Ignis is called back to the room by the sound of Gladio reaching into a pocket and pushing back his chair.

“I’ll go downstairs,” Gladio says. “Give this one some quiet.”

“Yes.” Ignis’ mind is still elsewhere. In the last hour or so, Prompto’s breaths have moved closer together. They’ve become more shallow. Ignis is attuned to his friend’s breathing now, as though if he lets himself his own breaths will match their distinctive pattern. It’s not a comfortable one.

Ignis hears that delicate _shffff_ of hands on skin as Gladio strokes Prompto’s arm.

“Gotta go explain to the sister, Prompto,” he says. “Don’t hang around for me if you’re running late. You do what’s right for you.”

Blindness has sharpened Ignis’ hearing. It gives him access to Gladio’s emotional, ear-close whisper of,

“I hope he does come to pick you up. You did good.”

It sounds as though Gladio brushes their friend’s cheek, though Ignis can’t be sure. Emotion presses upwards in his chest, and Ignis has to turn his face away in case he breaks down. If Gladio notices before he closes the door behind him, he doesn’t say so. He doesn’t speak at all.

 

Pryna’s crisis apparition had given Ignis ten years to get used to the idea of losing Noct. He hasn’t even had ten days to get used to losing Prompto. He hadn’t arranged to meet with him at all over his leave of absence, as Prompto usually made arrangements with him rather than the other way around. He’d simply expected things to resume as usual when he was ready again.

Over their last coffee, Prompto had said,

_You know, Iggy, it’s been good._

Ignis had sipped his cappuccino. _What’s that?_

_Everything._

It was a very Prompto answer. Ignis hadn’t pressed him – he’d known Prompto would continue in his own time.

 _I mean, the Long Night was tough, and the Scourge was awful._ He’d paused, and Ignis sensed a moment of grief – reading silences, something else that had improved with blindness – before he’d heard that familiar smile in his next words. The smile Prompto always had on his face, the one that on the surface said, _I am your friend,_ but that beneath that said, _I have faith that we can do this thing, all the things, if we do them together_.

Prompto had continued with, _But look at what we have now. There’s all these new little stalls popping up, and the junior school on the corner, and all the little kids who’ve never known the Scourge. Even the medications the guys from over yonder are coming up with to replace potions and stuff. It’s amazing._

 _Yes. The progress is remarkable._ Ignis had turned his cup on its saucer. He remembers the particular tone of its scrape clearly, offset against Prompto’s noise of satisfaction.

 _Peace and prosperity for everyone,_ Prompto had said. _It’s pretty awesome. I’m glad I had the chance to be part of it._

_Steady on, Prompto. We’re not quite there yet._

_Yeah. I know._ And there had been a downtick of spirit in that answer, one Ignis had noticed but left unacknowledged.

The causes of it were obvious now. Prompto’s regret that he wouldn’t be part of the next stage of work. The knowledge that he had to take his next adventure alone. Acceptance that he’d done well to achieve everything he had, and not regretting one second of it.

He’d known he was dying then, and hadn’t said a thing.

 

Gladio hasn’t been gone long when Prompto’s breathing hitches. Ignis is half expecting it, though panic bypasses the logical part of his brain.

He’s immediately on his feet, finding Prompto’s hands. They’re rigid with muscle contractions and the same must be happening in his chest, as his breaths are shallow and sound more pained. It’s hard to find a grip on those tight fingers, but there’s still enough palm to squeeze.

Ignis is sure there must be something he can do in this moment, something that will ease Prompto’s passing. He wants to be rational, and calm, but feels too stripped down for that. It’s all he can do to think though the dread clattering between his ears.

Years ago, when Ignis’ world still had visual definition and shape, Prompto had been in charge of a battle somewhere near Longwythe Peak. He wasn’t used to leading. He’d become endangered and, on the outskirts of their fight, had crept away to hide behind the Regalia.

At first, Ignis had been enraged. What if Noct had needed him? Running to his side, Ignis had helped him to his feet in irritated silence. Prompto had beamed at him and touched his brow, then his chest. He didn’t wait to run back into battle, immediately joining Noct in a Link Strike.

Until then, Ignis hadn’t understood a thing about Noct’s ‘protest’ friend, and five years of incidental meetings had left little mark. That was the moment Ignis had realised Prompto wasn’t used to asking for help, or getting it. In that moment of need he’d behaved like the abandoned child he was and had run away to try and deal with it alone.

In the hotel suite of Lestallum, surrounded by the echo of Prompto’s thin, rapid breaths, Ignis forces, “I can’t rescue you this time, Prompto. But know you’re not alone.”

“Damn right he’s not.”

Ignis freezes. Maybe the stress is causing him to hallucinate. When the owner of that voice had passed from this world to the next, Ignis had cleared a space for it to stand in reverence in his memory, a mental obelisk of worship to his lost friend and brother.

Slowly, as though the voice thinks Ignis didn’t hear it the first time, it says, “You can hand him over to me now, Iggy.”

“Noct?” Ignis isn’t even sure he speaks out loud. “You’re here?”

“Yep.” Noct’s voice moves closer, and a perceptible breeze passes over Ignis’ face. “Can’t let this one go to the other side on his own. Never know where he’ll end up.”

Prompto’s breathing becomes little more than a series of truncated gasps. The cursed, blessed blindness takes that view from Ignis, and he’s glad for it.

“He’s fighting it.” Noct’s voice is familiar in its fond exasperation. “He’s worried aboutcha, Specs.”

Ignis had never thought himself prone to open bouts of sentimentality. It muddied the water in a crisis and could make logical thinking impossible. He’d found restraining it to be key in many battles, both on and off the field.

This isn’t his battle, though.

In the throes of his death, while his body stretches out every last second and as his brain and heart give in to absolute inevitability, Prompto has forgotten exactly whose battle this is. He’s forgotten that death cannot be won over, only acquiesced to.

Ignis clasps Prompto’s arm to his chest, and places his hand over his friend’s heart. He doesn’t deny the tears.

“Now you listen here, Prompto. It doesn’t matter how much I love you and will miss you, this is a thing you must do, now, for you, and that you have no choice in. It hurts me, but I will be all right. Noct ran ahead as he always does, and it’s your turn now. I feel better knowing you’ll be safe in his hands.”

Ignis feels Prompto’s arm start to become limp in his hold. He resists the instinct to squeeze it and trap whatever energy is left. “There is no shame or failure here, Prompto. This is not a surrender. This is a homecoming.”

His fingers seek Prompto’s forehead and find the skin is dry and cold. Ignis tucks the hair there off his brow, towards his ears. Softly, he says, “So let go.”

The next few seconds are impossible. They seem to last decades, and in them Ignis fully imagines the state funeral he will arrange; the line of mourners that will attend the coffin; the Crownsguard who will volunteer their time to stand guard; the Kingsglaive who will dig the foundations of the memorial. And he imagines himself as the years speed up, growing older and more isolated, ever more bent and bitter.

Beneath Ignis’ hand the chest stills.

He moves his hand to a new position, then another, in case it’s a trick of the mind.

It’s not.

The silence that follows is too awful.

Noct must recognise this, as his voice is gentle. “I’ve got him, Iggy. You can let go now.”

He hadn’t realised he was still holding onto Prompto’s arm. It’s relaxed now, the rigor of the seizure having passed when he did.

At King Regis’ court there had been a strong emphasis on decorum. Habits born from such an early education rarely pass with time. Ignis’ hands are graceful as he turns back the blankets, far enough that he can unfold Prompto’s hand and rest it on his stomach. He walks around the bed to repeat this with the other arm, placing the hands over each other.

The tears fall where they may.

He searches for Prompto’s brow again, finding the bridge of his nose with his fingertips. His thumb and ring finger slide across to close his eyes.

The inner blanket sounds reassuringly heavy as he pulls it up and over Prompto’s chest, feeling the shape of his thinned shoulders, then the brush of his hair as he tugs it over his face.

Ignis doesn’t know if Noct’s still here. He won’t be able to tell from the breathing because there isn’t any. Tentatively, he says, “You will look after each other?”

Noct doesn’t pause. “You know it.”

It’s a relief to know he hasn’t left yet. Even in these circumstances, Ignis knows to appreciate every waning second with him.

“Will you come for me, too?” Ignis asks. He feels naked, like a young child waiting to be clothed and fed and loved.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You and Gladio both. But, when it’s time.”

“Yes. When it’s time,” Ignis says, and makes his way to his seat. He rests his hand on the blankets as he sits.

Quiet falls. Through the badly-fitting louvre doors of the balcony, the soundtrack of Lestallum filters in. Market stallholders clatter as they load up new produce; children chat to their fathers as they head to school; a broom scrapes on the outside steps of the Leville.

Ignis murmurs to Noct, “Don’t leave me for last.”

Noct doesn’t speak again.

 

The door lock snicks open. Ignis listens for the tread of Gladio’s boots on the carpet. As he hears his approach, Ignis doesn’t say anything. What’s happened is obvious.

Gladio gets no further than “I told her we’d–” before he stops. There’s a grunt as the air goes out of him, and Ignis hears the last thread of it in his throat. He puts down whatever he was carrying with a thud.

Gladio’s breathing becomes uneven before he speaks. “Called to his side, huh?” The legs of his chair scrape over the carpet as he sits, and Ignis imagines him looking down at Prompto’s body and wondering –

“It was… okay. He was okay,” Ignis says. “Just a few minutes to pass.”

“Yeah.” Gladio sniffs, then exhales loudly. “That’s somethin’.”

Ignis isn’t sure how to tell Gladio that Noct has been with them all night. He’s not even sure he should tell him. But Prompto’s pleased smile of ‘I told you so’ appears in his mind’s eye, and before he can stop himself he says, “Prompto wasn’t mistaken. Noct was here.”  

He gives that a few moments to settle in, once it’s clear all Gladio will offer is a long intake of breath.

“He spoke to me, and agreed to take Prompto into his care.” Ignis rubs the fabric of his trousers where it touches his knees. “I understand if you think me addled by grief, but–”

“Nah, Iggy. I know you.” Gladio’s voice is thin, but Ignis can well imagine his hand waving away the question. “If you say he was here… he was here. I’m sorry I missed it.”

 

They sit with Prompto until the mid-day sun boils those brave enough to wander out into Lestallum’s tropical heat. It’s a reminder of what Noct gave his life for, raised starkly in silhouette as they lose another brother.

Neither of them is keen to leave Prompto’s side but they can’t wait longer than mid-day.

There is work to be done.

 

With Gladio’s help, Ignis conducts everything. The casket is kept in state at the throne room of the Citadel for three days, and the flow of mourners is near-constant. There are refugees amongst their number, alongside Lestallum natives and returners to Insomnia. Prompto would have been proud his death could bring so many together.

Each morning between nine and twelve, before the day is given over to planning the ceremony and monument, Ignis stands at the bottom of the staircase. He listens as mourners come in and murmur quietly to children, or weep, or maintain a respectful quiet as they shuffle by.

On the first morning, while Ignis stands guard, some of the friends who sustained Prompto come to attend him. Each of them approaches Ignis when they’ve said their goodbyes.

Holly tells him all the girls at Exineris are sorry for his loss.

Cindy closes the garage and comes over for the morning, and with sadness in her voice tells him, _We lost a good one._

Dave can say very little over strictured emotion as he shakes Ignis’ hand: _Could do with more like him. Taken too soon._

Vyv asks if he can cover the ceremony so long as he’s respectful, and Ignis agrees.

Aranea greets Ignis casually but finds meaningful words hard, telling him only: _Glad you can’t see my face right now. I’ll be in town until we see Shortcake off. Let me know if you want to catch up._

Cor arranges a change to the Crownsguard safeguarding the casket just before Ignis leaves, and when they shake hands Cor tells him: _He walked tall, just as His Majesty did._

Ignis wishes that Prompto himself could have heard these things. While he learned to wear confidence like worn-in jeans, there was always a little part of him that relished approval, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

One the second morning, Talcott comes. He stands at Ignis’ side for the full three hours. Ignis knows the younger man’s face is barely dry in that time.

“I didn’t know he was ill,” Talcott says, sometime between ten and eleven.

“Nobody did. He wanted it that way.” Ignis still wrestles with the abandonment of that. He knows he always will, but he can’t change it. He can only forgive it. Prompto had found the courage to die on his own terms just as he’d found the courage to live that way.

Ignis does find it in himself to say, “At least he wasn’t alone in the end.”

Talcott sniffs. “It was like having four big brothers at Cape Caem. Those few months, after Grandpa, that house held all the family I had.”

Ignis smiles. The four had made frequent visits to the little house on the hill, with its rows of carrots and its lighthouse looking out over the sea.

“I know he was equally as fond of you. He checked every stall for Cactuars, no matter where he was. Even when darkness fell, he looked if he had the chance.”

Talcott gives a quiet laugh. “He got me one from Cartanica. I didn’t even know they had them over there.”

“Be careful. He might just have painted one from somewhere else. Prompto wasn’t beyond a simple ruse.”

Talcott sniggers, and Ignis thinks it’s nice to have a reason to smile again. The idea of Prompto sitting on the ground in Lestallum, carefully painting a Cactuar statuette in shades of sandy yellow and mossy green with a sheet of newspaper over his lap is a comfort. It’s also highly likely.

“It might even mean more to me that way,” Talcott says. He shifts his feet on the tiled floor. “He was always good to me.”

“He was. He was good to everybody.”

On the third morning, Iris and Gladio come to stand on either side of him. While Ignis can conduct the plans, he needs Gladio to view things and approve them. Some have questioned his absence, but none who know him. Gladio merely claps Ignis on the shoulder, then moves to his right.

Iris hugs Ignis, taking him by surprise. Her arms seem so much broader than the memory of her makes possible. She swallows hard before she speaks.

“How are you, Ignis? Has anyone even asked?” She kisses his cheek. It’s almost enough to tip him into tears, but he’s too tired. Instead, he gives her a stiff hug back and tells her,

“No, but I’m all right. Glad you’re both here.”

“You know, me and him were on a hunt together one time.” Iris’ voice is pitched low for crying. “Told me you looked after him better than his mom ever did. He said you and Noct made him feel loved.”

Ignis had hated it when Prompto called him ‘Mama Ignis’. He’d sought to be all things to Noct – brother, mother, all the people missing in his life – and in doing so had learned a variety of skills to fill those gaps. Looking after the people who looked after Noct was a natural progression.

Prompto’s mood changed his own in a way nobody else’s ever had. With Noct he’d often felt exasperation, but with Prompto he didn’t need to force himself. Prompto’s company was always freely given, and as somebody whose only politic was _is everybody okay?_ it was wholly refreshing, if sometimes a little too innocent.

Prior to his death, Prompto had always accepted Ignis’ care without argument. Given how blasé Noct had been to his attentions, it was something he’d found more rewarding than he could possibly have anticipated.

“I wish he had let me care for him properly, one last time.” His voice is deeper than he expects. “But if that is how he felt, it was my honour.”

“But he did let you. Do you think anyone but you or Gladdy could’ve got near him, vulnerable that way? He wanted you there at the end. And you were.”

Ignis doesn’t tell Iris that he and Gladio weren’t the only ones with Prompto at the end. He keeps that to himself – his motivator for the work still to do in this life and his belief of reunion in the next. Instead, he tells her, “You’re right,” and smiles.


End file.
